


be careful what a dream may bring

by floralia



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia (1997 & Broadway) Fusion, F/M, Memory Loss, Ozai too i guess, Zuko but only a little, i'm bad at tagging lol, no beta we die like jet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:08:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28858599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floralia/pseuds/floralia
Summary: "He tugged at the gold chain around his neck, the only thing he owned from a time he didn’t remember. Yelena had told him that he’d shown up at the orphanage’s door ten years ago, with nothing but dirty clothes and the golden chain. ‘Together in Paris’ was inscribed on the locket, and that had been his only lead about his family for years. He didn’t know who had given it to him, or when, but he remembered a gentle voice and soft hands placing it around his neck."~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Or:A boy with no memory of his past and a girl with too good of one are brought together by a rumor.
Relationships: Aang/Katara (Avatar)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Prologue

A young boy peeked out from behind his mentor's robes. The crowd of people seemed to move like a sea, groups weaving between each other, forming untraceable, overlapping patterns over the tiled floor. The boy tugged shyly on the robes, trying to get the old man's attention.

" _Popo_ ," he said softly, peering at the old man. "Why do we have to be here? Why can't we play Pai Sho or make fruit pies?" The man leaned down, kneeling to get to the boy's level.

“ _Zai_ , today is the Festival of Yangchen. It is tradition for us to speak with other masters on this day. Besides, we will have plenty of time to play Pai Sho and bake fruit pies after we reunite in Paris.” The boy pouted, burying his face in the front of the man’s robes.

“Why do you have to leave? Why can’t you stay with me?” The mentor places a gentle hand on the back of the boy’s shaven head, softly stroking the light peach fuzz beginning to grow there.

“It is important for you to learn from other masters as well, young one,” the man hesitates, seeming to consider his next words. “When I am present, you cling to me.” His voice held a hint of bitterness, slight contempt at the ones attempting to separate him from the boy he sees as a son. “At least, that’s what they think.” He pulled the boy closer, trying to memorize the feel of the child in his arms, the sound of his breath in the man’s ears. “Here,” he said, pulling away, “Have this.” He handed the boy a small golden chain, one of the man’s only earthly possessions, and clasped it around his neck.

The boy lifted the pendant, staring at the simple thing in curiosity.

“Together in …... Paris?” he read, looking up to the old man for confirmation. “When?” The old man chuckled, placing a soft hand under the boy’s chin.

“Whenever you wish, _nyingdu-la_ " The boy giggled, finally peering out at the crowd. He furrowed his brow, his small grin quickly shifting into a frown.

“There are so many people,” he said, voice so soft, it was almost a whisper. “How can we speak with them all?” The man laughed; a deep cheerful sound that seemed to echo through the room like prayer bells. It was the boy’s favorite sound in the world. He beamed, pleased to have made his _popo_ smile.

“We do not have to talk to them all, dear one,” The old man said, barely suppressing a smile, “Only those we wish to converse with.” The man stood, reaching a hand down for the boy to take, and stepped forward to greet a young woman with a braid. “Hello, Anaya dear,” he said cheerfully. The woman, Anaya, bowed deeply, her braid slipping onto her shoulder.

“Hello, Monk Gyatso,” she stood up, grinning. “I have so much to tell you. I have learned so much since we-” She was cut off by the sound of a gunshot, followed by shattering glass.

The first shot sent the crowd into shock. The second sent them into frenzy. Great stained-glass windows, depicting the feats of ancient spirits were being shattered, destroyed by people desperate to escape. Gyatso’s hand tightened on the boy’s, pulling him away from falling debris.

The two raced out of the room, ducking through a nearby doorway into an office. A kitchen girl looked up; terror evident in her blue eyes. She ran to the wall, prying a wooded panel off to reveal a passage. She ushered the monk and the boy through, hurriedly closing the panel after them.

The boy’s lip quivered, his eyes glazing over with tears. The monk squeezed his hand tighter, attempting to comfort the child. That was the best he could do; any noise would threaten to get them caught. The boy squeezed back, clinging to Gyatso like the monk was his only lifeline.

They quickly reached the end of the passage, where the girl put a finger to her lips, reaching over to open a door that led outside. She waved them out, glancing around for any of the crimson-clad soldiers, tense shoulders relaxing slightly when she didn’t see any of them.

“Do you have a way to escape?” The girl asked in a hurried whisper.

“The train,” Gyatso breathed, “we can take the train.” The girl nodded, leading them towards the nearest station.

“Are we going to Paris, _popo_?” the boy asked, his voice hushed. Gyatso smiled despite the circumstances.

“Yes, _zai_ , we are.” Despite the small size of his smile, his entire face seemed to light up with happiness. They wouldn’t have to be separated after all. Gyatso could see a sad smile on the girl’s face, for reasons he did not know. She couldn’t be more than eight, only two years older than the young boy at his side, yet both had seemingly experienced tragedy beyond their age.

The girl turned suddenly, stopping once the station was in sight. Her blue eyes looked strangely brighter in the night, like the moon had brought her alive. “Go,” she whispered. “You aren’t coming with us?” the boy asked, tilting his head to the side quizzically. The girl shook her head.

“I can’t. I can’t leave my brother behind.” Gyatso nodded, bowing low to the girl.

“Thank you. We wouldn’t have made it out alive if you hadn’t helped us. We shall forever be in your debt.” The girl looked shocked, her eyes wide and mouth slightly open. However, she composed herself quickly and bowed to the monk, turning around and running back toward the palace.

Gyatso turned back toward the station. The dark frame of the train station was visible, illuminated by the lanterns that hung in front of it. The bright headlights pierced the darkness, illuminating small figures stepping into cars. A wave of panic washed over the monk, the fear of not making it to the train seizing him.

He pulled the boy forward, both breaking into a run. They rushed up the steps of the station just as the train began to speed up, starting to pull out of the station. The crowds seemed to part around the monk, creating a clear path to the track. Gyatso leaped onto the back of the last car, clinging onto the railing so hard that his knuckles turned white. He stretched his hand to the boy.

“I can’t do it, _popo_ ,” the boy said, trembling, “I can’t.”

“Please, _zai_ ,” the monk pleaded, “You have to try.” The boy nodded fearfully, taking steps back and running into a jump. Just as his toes left the ground, an armored hand snagged the back of his yellow robes.

“Well, well, well,” the voice said smugly, holding the boy further up in the air. “Look what we have here.” The train sped out of the station, Gyatso’s cries mixing with the air. The station was flooded with darkness again, the only light being the moon reflecting off the man’s armor.

The boy couldn’t help but notice the way the moon reflected the man's eyes, completely different from how they had lit up the girl’s. The girl’s eyes had seemed ethereal, beautiful, serene. Like an ocean devoid of waves. The man’s eyes glinted maliciously, golden disks blazing like a wildfire, bent on destruction.

Nearby, another young boy, no more than ten, crouched. His father held a yellow-clad boy in the air like a trophy. His confidence in the cause wavered. He had always been told that the monks were weak. That they held fragile power over the people, simply driven from their so-called “goodness”. Yet, the monks’ pained screams rang in his ears, a sound ripping the air, ripping the soul itself, into two.

Seeing his father waving a helpless child in the air seemed to ignite a flame inside the boy, his golden eyes narrowing. Quick thinking was never his strong suit, but it was the only way to save the child. He laid on the ground as if he were injured, grotesquely twisting his foot.

“Father!” he screamed, “Father, help me!” His father’s eyes flashed towards him. He continued to shout for help, doubtlessly alerting other soldiers in the vicinity. Curling his lip, his father dropped the boy, who took off running immediately.

“What is it boy?” his father spat the last word in anger, eyes burning like a flame. Undeterred, he continued.

“My ankle!” he whimpered. “I think it’s broken.” His father sighed in distaste, then leaned down. “You always were weaker than your sister,” he murmured. The words stung, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise. “But Ursa will have my head if I leave you behind.” His father lifted him into his arms, something he hadn’t done since the boy was barely three. He walked back towards the palace, armor cold against the boy’s skin. He peered over his father’s shoulder, his eyes following the yellow robes until they were swallowed up by the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is my first work, so I'd love to hear your thoughts!  
> Glossary:  
> Popo - A Tibetan word meaning grandfather. I thought that it would be appropriate for Aang to refer to Gyatso using this term because of their close bond.  
> Nyingdu-la - Literally translated to "most honored poison of my heart" it's used as a term of endearment in Tibet. It's usually used for lovers, but I thought I'd use it here to try to show the bond between the two.  
> Zai - 'Child' in Cantonese, a part of the Sino-Tibetan language family  
> Please let me know if any of these are used in the wrong context, I'll happily change it!  
> (also, don't ask me where this takes place, the story of Anastasia takes place in Russia, but they're speaking Tibetan here, so.... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ )


	2. Chapter 1

“Have you heard the rumor?” 

Katara turned, trying to find the source of the voice. Finally, her eyes landed on a middle-aged woman, her head covered by a floral scarf. “What rumor?” she asked. She wasn’t one for gossip, but a rumor that got all of Petersburg in a frenzy was sure to be compelling. The woman leaned forwards as if she would be divulging a secret. 

“They say that one of the Nomadic Monks has survived.” 

“What?” Katara exclaimed. “But Sozin-” 

The woman shrugged. “It’s only a rumor.” Katara rolled her eyes. Rumor indeed. The woman hmphed and walked away, clutching her half-filled basket tightly in her fingers. 

Sighing, she turned, scanning the crowds for her brother. They’d agreed to meet by the ticket booth to purchase tickets to Paris, but Sokka was easily distracted. Chances were, he’d seen something on his way to meet her and had veered off course in favor of said thing. She should have known that he would be late. 

“Well, you’re early,” a voice spoke from behind her. Katara whirled around to see her brother leaning against the booth, fiddling with the object in his hands. 

“No,” she retorted, “You’re late.” 

“Late, early, what does it matter? Time is a social construct.” 

“Don’t try to talk your way out of this, idiot,” she said fondly. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t stay angry at Sokka, nor could he at her. “What took you so long anyway?” He proudly held up the thing in his hand, showcasing it to his sister. The object was small and shaped like a bison, with holes near the head. “.... What’s that supposed to be?” 

“A bison whistle,” Sokka said, “A traditional Nomad relic.” 

“Sokka, you know that it’s probably a scam.” 

“See, that’s what I thought too, until I saw this.” He turned the bison whistle around, showing Katara the side that had been facing him. He pointed to a small spiral design carved into the wood. Katara sighed, massaging her temple. 

“Anyone could have done that, Sokka.” He shrugged, tucking the whistle away into a pocket. “Besides,” she said suspiciously, “Is there any particular reason that you’re suddenly interested in the Nomad relics?” Her brother smirked, placing a hand on her shoulder. 

“Say, dear sister, have you heard the rumor?” Katara groaned, slapping her forehead with her palm. 

“Not this again.” Sokka ignored her, as usual. 

“See, the papers say that one of the monks survived and that his guardian, Gyatso, is willing to pay a surprisingly large sum for his return.” Katara raised an eyebrow. 

“So, what you’re saying is, we’re going to find this supposedly surviving monk, take him to Paris and collect the reward,” She looked at her brother skeptically. 

“No, what I’m saying is that we find someone who can pretend to be the monk and take him to Paris.” 

“But...” Katara trailed off, “Do you really think we should give this Gyatso man false hope? If he’s offering that much money for his return, whoever this monk is must have been really special to him.” 

“Well, think of it this way: If he buys it, then we’re rich and in Paris, and if he doesn’t, it was an honest mistake and we’re in Paris anyway. It’s a win-win situation.” 

“I suppose,” Katara agreed hesitantly. Her brother grinned. 

“Great. Now for the hard part: finding someone to play the monk. Any ideas on how to do that?” Katara shook her head, her mind wandering. “Wait,” Sokka exclaimed, “we should hold auditions.” 

“Auditions? Are you sure that’s a good idea?” He hummed in agreement, his mind no doubt full of plans of how they would accomplish this. 

“Definitely sure.” 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

“Next,” Sokka called critically, waving the person away. “I said, next!” 

“There’s no one else, Sokka,” Katara, said, peering into the hallway. “They’re all gone.” 

“This is so much harder than I thought it’d be.” 

“How hard did you think it would be?” 

“Not this hard, that’s for sure,” he mumbled, laying his head on his arms. 

“Oh well,” Katara said in an attempt to comfort her brother, “There’s still tomorrow.” Sokka only hummed in response. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry too much. Things will work themselves out. I know it.” 

“I guess,” he said softly, words muffled by his sleeves. She leaned back, closing her eyes and basking in the afternoon light. Last night had brought her both beautiful dreams and horrid nightmares, leaving her sleeplessly padding around the building, eyes passing over remnants of greatness. 

As she was on the verge of sleep, Katara assumed the dog barks to be a dream, nothing more than a figment of her imagination. But they continued, even as the rest of her dreams faded away, endured as Parisian lights evanesced. 

Her eyes cracked open, momentarily blinded by the winter sun. The barks grew louder. She rubbed her eyes, looking around the room. 

“Do you hear that?” Sokka asked her. 

“The dog?” He nodded, looking back toward her. 

“We don’t have a dog, do we?” Katara shook her head, looking at the door curiously. Sokka stood, holding out a hand to her. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Going to investigate, obviously.” She rolled her eyes, grabbing her brother’s hand and pulling herself up. 

Katara pushed the door open, stepping into a grand foyer. Snowy footprints marked the ground, alongside tiny pawprints. A small white dog with brown markings ran up to her. She picked up the pup, holding it up before her and cooing at it. The pup squirmed in her grip until she placed it back on the ground, then turned and ran in the direction of the footprints. 

“Well, that explains the barking,” Sokka noted. 

“Well? Do we go after it?” 

“After seeing the footprints, I think we have to,” he replied. 

The two ran after the pup, trying to keep it in sight. It led them to the ballroom, then planted itself firmly on the steps as Katara ran her fingers through its fur. A lone figure stood in the middle of the room, swaying softly as if he was caught in a breeze. 

Not able to stop herself, Katara called out. “Hello? Are you alright?” The figure turned, seemingly alarmed. Something about him felt familiar, like the memory of her mother’s warm embrace, of her father’s strong hands over hers. 

His face broke into a grin, brighter than the sun she’d been basking in earlier. Katara knew she was staring but couldn’t bring herself to stop. The light reflected off of his dark hair, illuminating his grey eyes. She could feel her cheeks warming as she quickly looked down, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“Hello,” he waved, “Would you two happen to know Sokka and Katara?” Her brother cleared his throat. 

“That’s us,” he said, eyeing the man suspiciously, “Why?” 

“Well,” the young man said, “I need to get to Paris, and I was told to find you for papers.” Katara saw the glint in Sokka’s eyes, one that was very familiar. It meant he had an idea. 

“Paris, huh?” The young man nodded. “I think I can get you to Paris, but I’m going to need something in return.” 

“Anything,” he said, “I’ll do anything.” Sokka smirked, turning his gaze to his sister. 

“Looks like we found our guy,” he whispered. He turned to the young man. “What did you say your name was?” 

“Well, I never told you, but it’s Aang. My name is Aang.” 

“Well, Aang,” Sokka said, his voice full of bravado, “Welcome to the team.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Aang has hair, but only because, at this point, he doesn't know that he's a monk.


End file.
